


Empty Dreams

by miss_grey



Series: What We Do In The Dark [61]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Accusations of Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hunter AU, M/M, Succubi & Incubi, Supernatural AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26047360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: Chuck Grant, hunter, is on a case involving an incubus.  The hunt doesn’t go how either of them expects.
Relationships: Chuck Grant & Floyd Talbert, Chuck Grant & Kitty Grogan
Series: What We Do In The Dark [61]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366063
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Empty Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This particular story, because it's about an incubus, naturally involves a bit of dubious consent. There is one accusation of assault. Nothing graphic. If you'd like more details on whether the accusation is true or not before you read, please just ask. (I'm @realhunterswearplaid on tumblr.)

_Dick sighed. “Thanks, Harry. Any other news?”_

_“Reports of an incubus in Indiana. Grant’s on that case now.”_

_“By himself?”_

_Harry shrugged. “You know how he can be. He insisted.”_

_“He’s a good hunter.”_

_“He is,” Harry agreed._

From “It’s a Date,” Part 12 of What We Do In The Dark

Chuck flicked his gaze casually to the side as the waitress passed him by then took a sip of his coffee, black, and returned to swiping through the local news on his phone. There was another report. Chuck quirked a brow and clicked on the link: _Woman Claims Dream Lover Strikes Again._ The paper, the _Indianapolis Enquirer,_ was known for its over the top, rumor-mill stories. Most people didn’t believe a word they read in the thing, but Chuck knew from years of experience that papers like this often revealed bits of truth and they were valuable tools for hunters like himself. So he read through the article in which a 34 year old woman named Mary Malone claimed that a mysterious man showed up to have sex with her in her dreams. The _Enquirer_ had reported on nearly a dozen similar claims in the last month. They’d dubbed the “mysterious man” the “Dream Lover,” a name guaranteed to sell copies. Chuck knew it meant incubus.

All of the reports were similar with the exception of one. For the most part, various women in their 30s and 40s (and two men) had come forward saying that a mysterious but charming, handsome man came to them in their dreams and gave them the night of their life. In the morning, they woke utterly satisfied, but exhausted, and with no one there. Initially, the gossip rag had written it off as an awkward morning after and a case of the man having run off. But after a couple other reports had come in, they’d caved and published the piece with the “Dream Lover” title attached. All of the reports read like this except for one. Mrs. Cindy Smith, 33, claimed that the “Dream Lover” actually assaulted her, and furthermore, she claimed that she was awake “though dazed, as if under a spell” when it happened. Her husband, Mr. Smith, had come home early from work, just in time to “scare off her attacker, who vanished into thin air, and save her.”

It was this report, the supposed assault, that had found its way through the hunter’s network to Currahee, where Kitty had picked it up and given Chuck a call. Though she loathed the idea of Chuck hunting alone (he hunted better alone), Kitty knew that Chuck was uniquely equipped to deal with a case like this. So, of course he’d taken it. Incubi were bad enough, but usually they tried to keep a low profile. If this one was assaulting people…well. Indianapolis was a big city, but Chuck Grant was a good hunter.

* * *

Once he flashed his badge at the reporter at the _Enquirer’s_ office, it hadn’t taken much convincing for the harried, sweaty young man to hand over Cindy Smith’s contact information and address. Chuck had scanned it briefly then shoved it in his jacket pocket before striding from the building. 

His car, a nondescript black sedan, impeccable and professional, waited for him in the underground parking garage. As always, Chuck scanned the area before pressing the key fob and unlocking the driver side door. Once in the car with the engine on, he dug Cindy Smith’s information from his pocket and reviewed it once more. Satisfied, he pressed the address into his GPS then backed out of the parking garage.

The house was a bungalow at the edge of suburbia, the exact kind of place he’d been expecting. Most of the driveways were empty as it was still in the middle of the workday, but Chuck figured that’s when Mrs. Smith was usually at home alone. And this sort of conversation was best had without husbands around.

At her door, he straightened the hem of his suit jacket and pulled his badge up to eye level. When the door opened and a 5’4” blonde woman peeked out, Chuck asked “Mrs. Cindy Smith?”

The woman frowned, eyes catching on the badge before flickering to his face and back again. “Um…yes?”

“Chuck Grant, FBI” he introduced, “I’m here about your recent report of an assault. Is this an alright time to talk?”

“Oh, um, yes, officer. Agent?”

“Agent Grant is fine.” Chuck soothed. “Mind if I come in?”

The woman still looked hesitant, but she nodded. “Alright.”

Chuck followed her into a spotless, orderly living room and sat when she motioned to the couch. “Can I get you anything, Agent Grant?” She offered.

Chuck gave her what he hoped was a reassuring (if not a bit stiff) smile. “I’m fine, thank you.” Except for that constant itch in his fingers, always aching for what they couldn’t have anymore. Chuck pulled a notepad from his front pocket and waited until Mrs. Smith had lowered herself into a chair across from him before he asked “How are you doing, Mrs Smith?”

She shifted uneasily in her seat. “I’m fine.”

Chuck cocked his head just slightly. “Are you alone in the house?” He could tell she was. “Does that make you nervous? Since the attack?”

She shifted again, wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s hard, sometimes,” she said, bowing her head, “but I decided I wasn’t going to let it ruin my life.”

Chuck nodded. “Does your husband often work late, Mrs. Smith?”

“He does.”

“Can I ask why he came home early on that particular day?” He pretended to glance at his notes. “August first?”

“He was supposed to have a meeting, but it was cancelled.” She flicked her eyes up to his, honest.

“Please let me know if any of my questions become too difficult.” He advised. She nodded. “Do you recall what you were doing directly before the attack took place?”

“I was cleaning.” She waved her hand around the spotless living room. “I like to keep a clean house.”

Chuck frowned. “The attack took place here? In this room?”

“No.” She also frowned. Shifted in her seat. “In the bedroom.”

“You were cleaning in there?”

“Yes.”

“The police report was very vague. Do you know how your attacker got in?” _Vague_ wasn’t quite the right word. The report had said, quite clearly, that there was no sign of forced entry anywhere. In fact, no evidence of another person, at all.

“I have no idea.” Mrs. Smith clenched her teeth. “I just blinked and suddenly he was there.”

“Just suddenly there?” _Incubus, alright._

Mrs. Smith huffed. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, alright? But I know what I saw, and I didn’t imagine things. It wasn’t the result of some…some trauma. He disappeared. Into thin air.”

Chuck nodded. “I believe you. If I didn’t…if the Bureau wasn’t taking this seriously…I wouldn’t be here.” Chuck lowered his notes for a moment and gave her his best sympathetic look. “You’re not the only one who’s had an encounter with this…man. So any information you can give me would help other women as well.” Chuck poised a pen over his notes. “Do you remember what your attacker looked like?”

“He looked incredibly normal.” Mrs. Smith began, eyes shifting away from his. “Brown hair. Blue eyes. Slight tan.” She shook her head. “You’d expect him to look like a monster, but he didn’t. He looked so normal. Handsome, even.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

She sniffed. “Not a thing.” 

* * *

Posing as a reporter, he was able to get ahold of another witness before noon. Their conversation went something like this:

“Yes, hi, is this Ms. Felicia Brown? I’m a reporter from the Chronicle and I’m calling about—”

“Yes, this is her. Are you going to write another article?”

“We’re looking into—”

“The Dream Lover?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to know, sweetheart?”

“Tell me about your encounter.”

The woman groaned obscenely on the other end of the line and Chuck had to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment. Better to put it on speaker. Her husky voice echoed in his car. “It was the best night of my life.”

Chuck frowned. “That good, huh?”

“Better.” The word was breathy, and Chuck briefly wondered if the woman was having sex _right now._

“So he didn’t…attack you?”

A snort. “I read what that woman said. Must be a different guy. Because my guy, _this guy, Sam,_ he’s sweet as sugar, but he’ll bite if you want him to.” A husky laugh. “And he’s got a large appetite. He’ll eat and eat and _eat,”_ the word grew breathier each time she said it “and never get full. He’s insatiable, sweetheart, and he’s got the stamina of a long distance runner.”

“Do you often have sex with strange men who show up in the middle of the night?” Chuck drawled. She’d said _Sam,_ but how much more generic could you get? No help.

“I do when I ask them to come.” She snipped, laughing at him.

“Wait…what?” He frowned down at the phone. 

“You have to ask for him, silly.” She giggled.

“Ask for him? How?”

A huff. “On the phone. At the number. You ask for him. And then he shows.”

“What kind of number is this?”

“For one of those agencies, you know. The kind that good boys and girls don’t know about.”

“He’s a prostitute.” Chuck’s frown grew.

“You shut your mouth,” she chuckled. “Escort. That’s the word they use.”

“Mmmm,” Chuck hummed, “my mistake. What’s the difference?”

“Escorts will take you out to dinner first.”

“So, what? You went out with him then went back for sex?” Now the story was getting muddled. The reports had said he’d shown up in the middle of the night.

“No, of course not. He was a perfect gentleman. A kiss on the cheek, a little flirting. And then he left.”

“So how exactly did this _best night of your life_ happen, then?”

“After I fell asleep, he _came back._ ” She moaned again, and the breathy sound echoed in the car. Okay, maybe speaker wasn’t any better. 

“He snuck in?”

Another giggle. “In my dreams, silly. Remember? _Dream_ lover. That’s how he comes to you.” Another giggle. “And he was worth every penny.”

“So if it was a dream, how do you even know he was there?”

“I had so many orgasms, I thought I might die. Even if it wasn’t real, sweetheart, I’d pay it again.”

Chuck huffed. “What’d he look like, your Dream Lover?”

“Oh,” her voice became almost normal again. “He looks quite ordinary, actually, though cute. Charming. Brown hair, blue eyes, medium build. He blends right in.” _Perfect,_ Chuck nearly grumbled.

“So…where can I get the number?” Chuck pressed. “For the agency?”

Felicia Brown only laughed at him, quipped “ _In your dreams_ ,” then hung up on him.

* * *

That night, Chuck jerked awake in the empty motel room, heart racing, palms sweaty, still splayed on top of the sheets. The clock next to the bed showed 2:30 am. “Right on schedule,” Chuck grumbled, as he kicked the comforter out of the way and switched on the bedside light. It was amazing how it always happened at the same time, no matter which time zone he happened to be in. His fingers itched, itched, _itched_ for a cigarette, but he ignored it. He reached for the pack of Oreos that sat on his nightstand instead and dragged it onto the bed. Next he grabbed the remote, turned the tv on to a random channel, and pressed mute. 

He stared at the muted screen, zoning out, as his nimble fingers reached out, twisted an Oreo apart, and brought it to his mouth. He’d been addicted to the damn things ever since Kitty had helped him kick cigarettes. Kitty laughed at him for it sometimes, but it didn’t stop her from slipping small packets of them into his pockets when he came around Currahee.

As he sat atop the sheets in his boxers and white t-shirt, pale legs splayed around the package of cookies, Chuck did his best to remember what he’d dreamed. _Nothing,_ he knew. Not a damn thing. Just a staticky, ringing emptiness, the same as always. It was never the dream that woke him, but the sodapop fizz that jolted through his veins in the wee hours of the morning, the compulsion that he should be _doing_ something, the reminder that he had a mission.

It'd been this way for the last two years. Ever since his partner…. Well. Ever since. He’d tried to drown the rage and frustration, helplessness and guilt with a bottle of booze and a lot of cigarettes, but that had gotten him nowhere fast. Chuck had been an absolute wreck of a man, an excuse for a human, really, barely dragging his body through the day, fueled only by a need for answers and good old-fashioned revenge. And then he’d stumbled into Kitty, and she’d changed everything. She’d gotten him sober and helped him kick the cigarettes. She’d given him hope and a reason and she believed in him, still, after everything.

Which is why he was here. Because when Kitty called with a favor, Chuck wasn’t in the habit of telling her no. 

Stuffing a fourth Oreo into his mouth, he pulled his laptop out of its bag and booted up his case notes. The interviews he’d conducted during the day had been informative, if contradictory. There were a lot of details that didn’t add up. It frustrated Chuck, but also served to further fuel him. He liked solving puzzles, always had, even before the Bureau. 

“He looks like a regular guy,” Chuck murmured to himself, as his eyes scanned the descriptions. Brown hair, blue eyes, medium build. You didn’t get more average than that, he supposed. Which was surprising, since he’d expected more from an incubus. Something sweeter, to bait the lure. Of course, it was possible that the two women were talking about different men. It was possible that one or the other (or neither) was actually an incubus, but that’s not what Chuck’s instincts told him. They said it was the same man. That this Dream Lover was an incubus who’d found a way to exist under the radar. “Working as an escort,” Chuck mumbled, “that’s smart.” 

Everyone knew that incubi fed on sex. It was their nature, same as vampires fed on blood. And yet this particular creature had found a niche where his victims came to him willingly, even ordered his services. And then _paid_ him for it, presumably. So. Dinner and a paycheck. Yes, this one was smart. But then, if he had a steady base of customers, why the assault? The story still irked Chuck. There was something about it that just didn’t add up. 

He sighed, setting aside his computer and the cookies, and stared at the muted tv once more. It was playing some sitcom from the 1950s. Chuck didn’t particularly care which one. Later, when the rest of the city woke up, Chuck would conduct more interviews. In the meantime, he knew he wasn’t going to be getting back to sleep. He rarely managed it. So, with another sigh, he heaved himself up for a shower, and then he figured he’d head out to find another 24 hour diner. Coffee. That’s what he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are love and keep me motivated. Please let me know what you thought :) Also, feel free to come say hi on tumblr. I'm @realhunterswearplaid.


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